


Freedom, Silence

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, death is not the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end, the end, the beginning? SkyeWard.  Death.  Gore.  All that fun stuff.  With a prize at the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom, Silence

The last thing John Garrett says to Grant Ward is: “Sorry, kiddo.”

Not  _I’m_ sorry, kiddo.  Just sorry.  Like it’s the fault of the greater universe.  Maybe it is.  Ward wouldn’t be surprised.

John calls it insurance.  Ward calls it madness.  It didn’t really matter what it’s called, because the bomb goes off the next instant, before Ward can properly grab Skye and shield her.

He knows he hears her scream.  He’s screaming too, in pain, in anger, in fear.  Skye.  She had been right there, an arm’s reach away.  He could’ve grabbed, if there had just been-

But there hadn’t been.  And there isn’t any left now.

  
  


He’s on his back, and he knows with unflinching certainty that he’s dying.  He should already be dead, but the blast wasn’t merciful enough to kill him instantly.  So now he’ll wait until the shrapnel bleeds him dry.

He doesn’t expect anyone to come for him.

There is a wheeze to his side, a gurgling sound.  He tries to look towards the sound.

“Skye?” he asks.  He keeps straining.  He’s starting to pull himself towards her, just a little.  She’s still so close to him.  A little more than an arm’s reach, now, but close.

He manages to almost crawl, for a moment, until he sees the blood.  

She’s got a ragged chunk taken out of her side.   She should be dead.  She should’ve been spared the suffering.

He should’ve been faster.

“Skye,” he repeats.  She might be dying, now.  She’s going to go any second but-

Someone has to come looking.  Someone has to come for her.  

“Where’s May?” he asks.  “Where’s Coulson?”

She groans.  “It hurts,” she says.  It must hurt.  She’s bleeding so much faster, this time.

“You’re going to be-” a piece of shrapnel rearranges part of his intestines as he moves his body towards her.  He winces.  “You’re going to be okay.”

She’s looking straight up, at the stars overhead.  “No, I’m not.”

“They have the GH-325,” he says.  “They brought Coulson back.  They’ll bring-”

She starts to have a coughing fit.  She spits up blood and bile and a couple of teeth.

“I got lucky-” she wheezes.  “Once.  I’m out of luck.”

He’s at her side.  He lets himself fall onto his back again.  “They’ll bring you back,” he says.  They have to.  They have to.

He turns his head to look at her.  Her face is streaked with blood and dirt and tears. Bleeding.  Dying. 

“I don’t want to die,” she whispers.

“You’re going to come back,” he says.  “You’ll be fine, Skye.”  It’s getting harder to speak.  And see.  And breathe.

“You killed FitzSimmons,” she says.

“I tried to save them,” he says.  “And I swear to you, Skye, I wanted them to be okay.”

“I wish I hated you,” she says.  She says it so weakly.  “I should hate you.”

“I know,” he replies.  “I failed them.  I failed you.”

She takes his hand, then.  “I’m scared.” She tries to sob, but she’s got too much blood in her lungs. She coughs, but it catches wetly.  Like she’s drowning.

And maybe that’s why she’s touching him.  Because even after everything, she doesn’t want to die alone.

“I’m here,” he whispers.  He squeezes her hand.  “You’re not alone,” he says.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

“I should hate you,” she says, so quietly, now.  “But I can’t.”

“You can,” he says.  “You can hate me.”

  
  


Her fingers weakly try to squeeze his hand.

  
  


She sucks in a breath, wet-sounding and wheezing.  “Do you think I’ll go to heaven, Grant?” she asks.

She sounds so young.

She is so young.  She’s so young and so good.  By the time Ward gathers the energy to let out a gasping “Yes,” her hand’s gone limp.  The sucking sounds of her labored breathing are gone. 

“Skye?” he whispers.  “Skye?”  It takes more energy that he has, and it will speed up the bleeding, but that’s not really important, is it?  He tries to move just a little bit closer to her.  He rolls, wincing, feeling bits of metal and debris force themselves deeper into his body.  He makes it onto his side.

He’s not sure how much time he’s got left.  He moves her singed hair out of her face, before it becomes too hard to move and his body starts to give out.

“I don’t think I’m going where you’re going, Skye,” he says.

He’s not crying for himself.  He hasn’t done that in years and years.  This is for Skye.  Always for Skye.

She’d told him to rot in hell.  And for her, he would.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  He tries to squeeze her hand, but he can’t.  He doesn’t have the strength left in him.

He won’t tell her he loves her.  She can’t hear him, and it won’t do his soul any good.

But he does love her.  He always did.

  
  


.

.

.

  
  


The bodies are almost cold by the time she arrives, kitten heels maneuvering quickly around the pools of blood and piles of debris.  She stares at them and almost smiles, but not quite.  She’s not happy they’re dead.  She’s never been happy for anything like that.

Well, maybe once or twice.

But this isn’t about death.  This is about opportunity.

“Bag them up,” Raina says, to the five men flanking behind her.  “I’ll see what I can do.”


End file.
